


Spilled Thoughts for the Mad

by DeductionIsKey



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Coming of Age, Fear, Gen, Personification
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 10:31:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14134245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeductionIsKey/pseuds/DeductionIsKey
Summary: She wasn’t lonely. When the lights were dim, and her thoughts spun as the dog snored, she wasn’t lonely. When a dozen visitors were laughing, or gossiping as she read in the corner, she wasn’t lonely. When the only sounds she could hear was her music and her breathing, she wasn’t lonely.She was alone in a crowd.





	1. Imbroglio

**Author's Note:**

> My first collection of original works on here.. hope you like some terrible writing!

She wasn’t lonely. When the lights were dim, and her thoughts spun as the dog snored, she wasn’t lonely. When a dozen visitors were laughing, or gossiping as she read in the corner, she wasn’t lonely. When the only sounds she could hear was her music and her breathing, she wasn’t lonely.

Maybe she was lonely. She was lonely when people laughed right next to her at some joke she understood, but thought was trivial. She was lonely when she was a mere afterthought in groups, trailing along.

She was lonely in a crowd.

It started young. And maybe you could say it started the first time she realized the interests of her peers were different. Maybe it started the first time she sat among others and wondered why she was there. Maybe, the first time she dove into a book, or touched a piano.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

She realizes time is not on her side.

And she understands.

She understands that children are cruel, with whispers and gibes. That loyalty doesn’t exist in fourth grade, or fifth, or sixth. That smiles could be faked, and friendships can dissolve into nothing in an instant. And all the while, she wants more, needs more than that classroom. She wants to imagine that somewhere, she could be listened to, could be understood, the way others were and are.

She hasn’t found that place yet.

Hope is important, she learns. Without hope, and the future, and unknown, she had nothing. If she lost hope in the future, (with all its possible understandings, that fact that maybe one person could look at her) she had nothing. She was nothing.

She first plays the piano late one September. And she wonders, why more don’t feel that exhilarating feeling she gets, the emotion, the euphoria that comes with those black and white keys? How could one live without music in their heart and music in their soul? How could she have survived this long without playing?

Her life gets better, and then worse. Like a waltz, only she spinning alone and out of sync, can only just avoiding crashing into other people. Around her, the world goes unchanged, that endless cycle of none are aware.

She sees, and she grows, as it’s the only thing left to do.

She makes mistakes, as all do. She’s bitter and brash, because she doesn’t understand how this could happen, how both of those figures she trusted, left her alone, with strangers who grip her shoulder a bit too tight, and smile a bit too wide. She learns the system, that there was no such thing as being a thousand miles away from everything you love and still being happy. She lashes out, and tries to distance everything so she won’t cry and beg to go home every time she calls. He promises only a year left, but it seems so far away, just like him. But, she hopes in the future, and waits.

The time comes, and she never looks back. She never wants to go back, and would anything to forget the walls of cement, the bunk beds. Forgets the figures that name her things she hates, that think age is power, and gives them the right to bite out vicious words. She tries to forget their names. And she does, forgets their faces until they’re nameless, and only blurs remains.

It’s a relief. And you couldn’t pay her to go back.

So now all that’s left is the future, and growth. Stress is just a word, and loneliness is just a feeling. All will pass, though some will linger longer than others. She finds her happiness in music, and printed words, with worlds beyond her own. Of course, sometimes she wants for that someone to look past her bubble, and be interested and understand. But she willing to wait for now. Good things, including friendships and understanding and discussions as deep as she could possibly want, come to those who wait.

And she has plenty of time.

 

 

 


	2. Perhaps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For what separately us from the millions of creatures who live alongside us? Why, out of all the species in the world, more majestic and regal then we could ever hope to achieve, did we get chosen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another work!

__Perhaps

Writing, the psychical act of making a story, a plot, a life from something else. What is it but analogies, spinning across the page? Forming letters is beautiful, like life that never falters, unless you do. But what if you cannot deal with that codependency? When you can barely stand on your own two feet, what is writing then? Maybe it’s your life that you drain and pour across the page, until you’re an empty shell of what you used to be, and nothing lives on when you’re gone but those words.

Writing is art. The typing of keys at 4 a.m. that could speak to a soul, could change a life, could end one. It’s like dancing, with your back steps and your mistakes, because it’s that what life is? It’s a group of mistakes people don’t know what to do with, until they get something right and think, that that’s what is was supposed to be from the very beginning, and then forget their journey that led them there, when they tripped, when they cried and wondered who had sent them down to this vale where they could do nothing. They wondered the meaning of what they thought was life, and now totally disregard it in the hope that something new may come up.

What a waste.

But is it? For once they feel that euphoria, they crave it. They live for it. So, in the end, they only feel alive for what they think is living. That is the cruelest sense of irony, one that the heart can’t explain, though it can try. There is not much the heart can explain, honestly. It’s all metaphorical anyway, for your heart is an organ, and is not responsible for your feelings of joy. So, why then do we attribute these feelings to such a thing? Perhaps it is because we cannot live without the heart, such as we cannot live without emotions.

For what is your frustrations at a child who is reckless overcome by another but fondness? Truly, without such feelings you would have sooner lost your temper, for nothing softens the spirit quite like innocent love.

This brings the question of what makes emotions. Chemical processes, hormones, of that we are sure. But it must go deeper than that? Cannot there be another source of grief, and love, or malice? Our brains surely must not be the only source.

For what separately us from the millions of creatures who live alongside us? Why, out of all the species in the world, more majestic and regal then we could ever hope to achieve, did we get chosen?

Perhaps it is their innocence that makes them majestic.

Perhaps it is our guile that makes us human.

Perhaps.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments give me life~

**Author's Note:**

> Comments brighten up my bad days.. Please?


End file.
